Birthright
by Shellecah
Summary: A privileged heir protects the mercenary cousin bent on killing him. A present-tense tale in the first-person voices of: Ch 1 – Moss, Matt, Ma; Ch 2 – Matt, Jonas, Matt; Ch 3 – Sam, Kitty, Doc; Ch 4 – Chester, Matt
1. Chapter 1

Moss Grimmick

The burly stranger fakes worriment for the gent with him when my Standardbred stallion bucks and throws the fellow. The big man and thin, lightly built dandy pay for the loan of horses, and the big one steps close behind the stallion's hind end instead of mounting the bay gelding he chose. He looks a rough cunning sort, so I squint hard to make out what he's about, shading my eyes and pretending the sun's in them. I have sharp eyes for my age, and see just what the big man does.

He pulls a small tree burl from his pocket, and with a sly fast move sticks the stallion's rump, pressing the needles into his flesh. A docile breed, the horse behaves specially well, for a stallion particular, but now he whinnies, arches his back and kicks his rear legs. The man who stuck him jumps out of the way as the thin fellow flies over the horse's head, his body flipping in the air. He lands on his back and lies still, his eyes wide as he breathes hard.

I know I don't need to hold the stallion's head or lead him to the side. He calms straightaway and stands quiet, his hide twitching from the cut streaming blood down his rump and his tail swishing.

I run to the fallen man. He struggles to get up and I lend him a hand. "Thanks," he says, brushing dirt from his fine suit with his hat. "Something spooked the horse."

"You alright?" I ask as the big man ambles over to us easy as you please.

"Yes, I'm fine," says the thin gent.

"It's alright, Ashton," he says to the big fellow. "I'm fine."

The slim one grins at me. "I'm much sturdier than I look," he says, putting on his hat. "Never had an accident that could lay me up."

Ashton scowls like his companion did somewhat wrong, then says to me, "That stallion's a danger, Mister. You should give Clement his money back."

"The horse is no danger," I say. "I saw you stick a burl in his rump. He's bleeding."

Clement looks at me like I'm speaking a language he don't understand. He has a kindly, guileless face. "You are mistaken, sir," he says patiently. "Ashton would not torment an animal or purposefully imperil me. Perhaps the wind blew a pebble that struck your horse."

"This man is my cousin," says Ashton, turning his scowl on me. "My father's brother's son. I have no call to harm him. You're lying, old man. So you won't have to give Clement his money back. You're afraid we'll spread it in town that you're loaning skittish horses." Ashton has a gruff voice and pale blue eyes that don't reflect light, and his heavy frame is bound in muscles. He bears no resemblance to his cousin.

I search the ground, bend over and pick up the burl coated with my stallion's blood. I hold the burl up in my fingertips.

Clement shakes his head and smiles. "Sir, it's alright," he says. "Mr.—?"

"Moss Grimmick."

"Mr. Grimmick," says Clement. "I don't want my money returned. I want to go riding, on this stallion if you will allow it. This was simply an accident and it's not your horse's fault. Your eyes played you a trick. The wind blew the burl through the air and hit the horse."

I know I can't get him to see the truth of it, so I quit trying. "Let me wash his cut before you ride him," I say. "So the dirt won't poison his blood."

"Of course," says Clement.

"You've had enough of horses for one day, Clem," says Ashton as I lead the stallion to the trough for a drink. "You almost broke your neck."

"Not me," says Clement. "Never splintered a bone in my life. You can go back to Mrs. Smalley's and work your puzzles if you like, Ash. I am going riding."

"No," says Ashton. "I'm going with you. You know nothing about these plains. You'll need your manservant if you get in trouble."

"_Manservant," _I say. "You said you were cousins."

"We are, Mr. Grimmick," says Clement. "The valet who took care of me as a boy died, and Ashton asked for the job."

"What's your last name, you don't mind me asking," I say.

"Coleridge," says Clement. "It's Ashton's name, too."

I figure Matt will want their full names when I tell him what happened.

Matt

The cousins have separate rooms at Ma Smalley's, making it easier to talk to Ashton alone. When he opens his door at my knock, he wears socks with no boots and no collar and tie, his shirt pulled out unbuttoned over his underclothes. Puzzle pieces are scattered on the table, and the room feels comfortably warm coming in from outside. It smells of fresh coffee, and he has a cupful on the table.

"Ashton Coleridge?" He nods, eyes narrowing. Looks like he has somewhat to hide. "I'm Marshal Dillon."

"Is this about my cousin getting thrown from a horse this morning? I had nothing to do with it, Marshal. That old man's a durn liar."

"I've known Moss Grimmick a long time. Never known him to lie."

"Then you're accusing me of trying to hurt my own cousin? Kill him, maybe?"

"Why else would you stick the horse's rump, Coleridge."

"I didn't. I told you," says Ashton.

"Where're you from?" I say.

"New Haven, Connecticut. Not that it's any of your business."

"That's a ways from Dodge," I say. "What are you here for."

"Clement's parents died of the typhoid a year ago and he wanted a change of scene. His father was a very rich man, worth millions by the time Clem was born. Dodge is no place for him to settle. We're here while he decides where he wants to live," Ashton says.

"You travel with Clement everywhere he goes, do ya?" I say. "Moss says he looks to be about twenty-five years old."

"He's thirty," says Ashton. "He hired me as his manservant when his valet was taken by the typhoid along with his folks."

"Seems kinda strange, a man working as valet to his cousin. You're quite a bit older than Clement, aren't you?"

"I'm forty-two and I needed the job. You ask too many questions, Marshal."

"Clement have any siblings?"

"No. What's that to do with a horse throwing him? You're meddling in our affairs, Dillon, and I don't like it." Ashton swaggers close, thrusts out his wide jaw and glowers, his big hands forming fists. He has odd eyes; his squarish face shows feeling but his eyes don't. He's some five inches shorter than me and a sight bigger, and he doesn't scare me despite his bulging muscles. He's a bad one. I've run up against his breed before, and I want to knock him senseless.

Instead I calmly ask him, "What about your parents? Are they living?"

Ashton blinks, jerks back his head and shifts his eyes from mine. I guess he doesn't know how empty his eyes are. They tell me nothing. "My mother died when I was a boy, and my father died a year before Clement's folks. Pa was a farmer and he worked too hard. His heart gave out at sixty-five. I decided that was not going to happen to me, so I sold the farm and asked Clem to hire me as manservant. Now I'm through telling you my business, Dillon. Get your hide out of my room before I throw you out."

I move my face close to his. "I'm makin' it my business to know what you're doing," I say. "If your cousin has another accident, I'm gonna know why."

"You've no right," he says. "You know nothing about me or Clement. All you have is a falsehood that doddering Grimmick told you."

"I know you're no good, Coleridge," I say, and turn to leave.

"You dung pile," he growls. "Just let me catch you alone on a dark night, Dillon."

I look back at him as I open the door. "Like you want to catch your cousin?"

He lunges at me, swinging. I duck his fist and he punches the door. The door is thick solid hickory and he winces, grabbing his hand. I turn my back on him and walk out.

Ma Smalley

When Clement says he feels sick late at night, I think of the glass jar of white powder labeled _Arsenic _that I saw as I dusted the chiffonier shelves in Ashton's room. The jar was full to the top, and I wondered what use he could make of it. I likely would not have related the arsenic to Clement's illness, only when I paid for the loan of a horse and buggy to go visiting, Moss told me how Ashton took a tree burl of needles and stuck the horse Clement mounted so the horse threw him. There is something wrong with Ashton, like a wily cruelty. His eyes are dead.

I sit at the kitchen table in my dressing gown with a cup of tea, my hair in its night braid down my back, writing a list of provisions for shopping day. I'm so absorbed in my task that I only notice Clement when he speaks. He has a refined pleasant voice. He is so different from Ashton in every way, it's hard to believe they're cousins.

"Mrs. Smalley?"

I look up to see Clement standing in the kitchen, his usually straight shoulders hunched and an arm clasped to his waist. Like me, he wears a dressing gown, much finer than mine of course. His is wine-colored silk. He has a fair complexion most women would envy, soft and stainless, and normally glowing with a pink tint to his lean cheeks despite the paleness of his skin.

He looked well at dinner but now he looks grayish, the brightness faded from his light-brown eyes, which have rosy smudges under them. "Pardon me for disturbing you, but I feel a bit ill," he says. "It's strange as I am never sick. I've dined on raw game in heathenish lands without suffering the slightest bellyache or rumble," he says, smiling apologetically.

"Oh dear," I say, rising from my chair. "Sit down, Mr. Clement, while I fetch my restoratives. We'll have you fit again in no time."

"Thank you. You're most kind," he says.

I open the cupboards and take out bottles of stomach bitters and peppermint. I know his trouble cannot be anything he ate at supper, as I fix only the freshest wholesome food and cook with olive oil instead of lard or butter, and my dishes are not too rich, oily or spicy. Tonight we had a robust chicken soup with johnnycake and peach pie for dessert, a nourishing meal for the cold weather.

"Now you tell me what ails you specific, Mr. Clement," I say, slicing ginger root for a healing tea.

"Well I felt fine until after dessert, when Ashton and I drank our coffee over chess in his room," Clement says. "Your chicken soup was excellent, ma'am, and my appetite voracious as usual. I had two bowls. I finished two cups of coffee and my stomach started aching. Then I felt nauseous and ran to the water closet and emptied my stomach, and was caught short too. The worst is over, only I've a little soreness and cramping."

I tell him to swallow two spoons each of the bitters and peppermint, and to take the bottles to his room while I carry the ginger tea in a china pot with a cup on a tray. His room is next to Ashton's on the ground floor. "You take sugar in your coffee, don't you, Mr. Clement?" I ask as we walk.

"Yes. Sugar and cream," he says. "Ash takes his black. He's an odd sort, though I oughtn't talk so about my own cousin. He insisted on adding three heaping spoons of sugar to both my cups of coffee, when he knows I like just one. It was too sweet and I wouldn't have drunk it, but he forced me. He said I needed a heap of sugar to keep my spirits up, as the cold dark months were upon us. How absurd is that, Mrs. Smalley," Clement says with his quick easy smile. "My spirits are always high except when Ashton hounds me.

"Even more ridiculous, he picked up the sugar bowl and dashed it in pieces on the floorboards, making sure he missed the rugs so the bowl would shatter. I jumped in my chair and laughed, and asked Ash why the deuce he did that, and he said for the fun of it. Then he cleaned up the mess and took it out to the trash barrel. He said the barrel was overflowing so he burned the trash," Clement says.

We're at his room door. "May I come in, Mr. Clement?" I ask.

"Well, sure," he says. "I'd like some company while I drink the tea."

I help him take off his dressing gown. He wears a matching silk nightshirt. I tell him to get into bed, plump two pillows behind his back against the headboard and pour him ginger tea. He is entirely at ease with my ministrations and presence in his room, as though expecting and accustomed to both. "I much prefer you taking care of me than Ashton," he says. "You're a lot prettier and sweeter than he is, Mrs. Smalley."

I laugh and swipe my hand at him. "You mustn't flatter an old lady like me, Mr. Clement," I say. "You'll turn my head, and I have trouble enough keeping it on straight as it is."

"You don't look at all old," he says.

"Why, thank you." I pull a chair to the bedside. "Mr. Clement," I say, "why don't you dismiss Mr. Ashton. A strong man like him can find jobs with no problem."

Mr. Clement sips his tea. "He makes me feel guilty, I suppose," he says. "I have never worked; my solicitor handles my money, and my agent oversees the gun manufacturing factory and fishery and farms my father left me when he died. My uncle, Ashton's father, owned just one farm, so close to the sea the soil was sandy and muddy, with too much salt in the earth there. He toiled more than most farmers to make it yield, and until my uncle died, Ashton worked hard as he did. Ash tells me I owe him as his only close living relation to make his life easier."

"I see," I say. "You said Mr. Ashton forced you to drink the sugary coffee. Did he threaten you?"

"Oh no." Clement smiles again. "People think Ash a mean fellow as he is big and muscled, and has a rough voice and manner. He has some strange ways but he's not a bad man. Ashton would not hurt me."

"Then how did he force you," I persist.

"He ordered me. He put the cup to my mouth until I drank." Clement's finely cut face flushes. "I am not a bold man, Mrs. Smalley, in part because I've not had to be. Pa always said I was too tractable."

"I see," I say again. I decide not to mention my suspicion about the arsenic to Clement, as it might trouble him too much after taking ill, and I can tell he wouldn't believe me anyway. I am alerting the marshal though, even if I must wake him. How fortunate for me and my boarders that Marshal Dillon rooms here at my place.

"I am quite over the bellyache, whatever caused it," Clement says. "Not even a cramp now; I'm very well again and hungry now that I emptied myself. I shall relish breakfast in the morning."

The grayish hue had vanished from his skin as had the pink smudges under his eyes, which looked once more clear and bright. "Sickness scarcely touches me," he says cheerily. "I never need a doctor."

"I'm glad you're all better," I say, stunned at his fast recovery. After drinking six heaping spoons of sugar laced with arsenic in his coffee, he should be gravely sick if not dying. I figure Ashton poisoned him. For a slender pale man, Clement's constitution is remarkably strong. I bid him goodnight and he thanks me for my kindness, and I hurry to the marshal's room to tell him all.


	2. Chapter 2

Matt

I tell Ma to lock herself in her room, suggesting she go to bed while I talk to Ashton. Although she's disappointed, Ma will find out tomorrow everything that's said and done if I don't reveal a word to her.

Lamplight shines under Ashton's door, so I figure he's awake. He answers my knock and stands in the doorway, holding the door ajar. "What do you want now, Dillon," he says. "I told you Clem's and my life stories and you're not satisfied. Your meddling knows no bounds. Well, it's late and I'm not minded to welcome you in."

I put my hands on the door and push. The door doesn't budge as he holds it. I feel his iron strength through the wood, and like the first time I met him, I want to subdue Ashton with my fists. "Let me in, Coleridge," I say. "I need to talk to you." He shrugs, opens the door wide and steps aside.

I move to the chiffonier and see the arsenic jar on the shelf. Ashton is either too arrogant or too dumb to hide it. Likely he's both. I pick up the jar and look at the white powder inside. Someone dipped into it and I know who he is. Ma said the jar was filled to the brim when she dusted the shelves.

Ashton comes up beside me. "Is Clement alright?" he says warily. "He was sick after supper."

"His room is right next to yours," I say. "You haven't checked on him in over two hours."

"He said he was going to ask Mrs. Smalley for a medicinal," Ashton says defensively. "I figured she'd send for the doctor if he was bad off."

"Ma said he's over it already," I say, holding the jar of arsenic. "He's looking forward to breakfast."

"Oh." Ashton's blank eyes look distant, his broad face troubled as he scrubs his hand over sparse, close-cropped hair.

"You don't seem pleased to hear your cousin survived," I say.

He frowns like my voice and presence irritate him and break his concentration. "What do you use arsenic for, Coleridge," I say.

"An apothecary told me it dries the pox," says Ashton. "I never heard of any such thing, but he said mix it with water and make a paste, and put it on the sores."

"Uh-huh," I say. "You mixed this with sugar and poisoned Clement's coffee, then broke the bowl and burned the mess in the trash barrel to get rid of the evidence."

"That's a fool notion," says Ashton. "I have no reason to poison Clem. The chicken in the soup at dinner must've been bad."

"None of the other boarders complained of any sickness," I say. "You're Clement's closest living relation."

"So what."

"So you inherit his wealth if he dies before you, unless he wills it to someone else. I figure you convinced Clement to will everything to you."

Ashton swallows hard, staring at me. "None of that is proof I tried to kill him," he says.

"Not in itself," I say. "Add this arsenic jar to the tree burl I'm keepin' in a safe place, the burl stained with the blood of the horse that threw your cousin, and that makes you suspect of attempted murder, Coleridge. If Clement has another accident, you're going to jail and standing trial."

"Clement's accident-prone," Ashton says. "I'm a handy target to blame as I'm with him most of the time, because I'm his valet. You're being unjust. Any judge would see that."

"You seem mighty sure some other misfortune will befall your cousin," I say. Carrying the jar, I turn to leave his room.

"That arsenic is mine," he says.

"Not anymore."

Jonas

Moss and Ma Smalley told me about the eastern cousins, how the horse threw Clement Coleridge, his sudden sickness at Ma's place and the arsenic. The two men are in my store now. Ashton examines two shotguns he wants his cousin to buy while Clement aimlessly wanders the floor, looking at this and that. He seems restive, like he wants to leave.

"Come buy these, Clem," Ashton orders, and Clement approaches the counter. "We're going hunting," Ashton explains to me. "I think Ma Smalley might not mind cooking some fresh antelope."

"I'm sure she'll be happy to," I say. " 'Specially if she don't have to pay for it."

"Hah," Ashton grunts, not smiling.

"You know I don't hunt, Ash," says Clement. "We'll take just one shotgun, Mr. Jonas." I notice he's not wearing a six-shooter, and Ashton is.

"And a box of slugs," says Ashton.

"You can go hunting by yourself," Clement says to his cousin. "I'll stay in my room and read."

"You're coming with me," says Ashton, as Clement pays for the shotgun and slugs. "You need fresh air and exercise."

"I will not trail you for hours on the prairie to watch you shoot an antelope," says Clement. "It's cold and gray out. I am going back to Ma's."

Ashton picks up the rifle and slugs. "You'll do as I say," he growls, glaring at his cousin, who looks afraid.

"Alright," Clement says quietly as they walk out. "But I refuse to follow you about like a child while you indulge your bloodlust. I've a book in my coat pocket; I'll sit by the horses and read."

"Suit yourself," Ashton answers.

I commonly see family bickering in my store. Ordinarily I think nothing of it, but Ashton seems to me menacing toward his cousin. I'm off to tell the marshal about this directly.

Matt

I ride to the place where a herd of pronghorn was sighted when the cold set in. The ground is soft from a rainstorm two days ago, and I clearly see two sets of horseshoe prints leading to the spot, marked by a dense stand of cottonwood trees.

A stone's throw from the wood, I hear three shots. I tug the reins to halt Buck, dismount and draw my gun and cautiously approach the trees. Maybe Ashton shot at antelope, maybe not.

Clement races out of the wood, holding his hat. He sees me and runs in my direction. _"Marshal!" _he shouts, waving his hat over his head, his voice high and panicky. His eyes have a wild look. _"Someone's shooting at me," _he gasps, jabbing a leather-gloved finger at the wood. _"Someone in the trees!" _

Ashton comes out of the wood with a shotgun. Though he's not aiming it, I'm not taking chances. I point my gun at him. "That's far enough, Coleridge," I say, and he stops walking.

"Oh no, Marshal." Clement says. "That's only Cousin Ashton."

"Put the shotgun down," I order Ashton, and he bends over and puts it in the grass.

"Marshal," Clement protests, "Ash did not shoot at me. He's hunting antelope."

"Your gunbelt too," I say to Ashton. He unbuckles it and puts it by the shotgun.

"Now come over here," I say, holstering my gun.

"He might be still in there," says Clement, looking wide-eyed at the trees. "The man who shot at me. I didn't catch a glimpse of him as I was sitting on the big rock yonder reading while Ash looked for a pronghorn. Look, Marshal." Clement shows me two slug holes at the front and back of his coat under the arm, then pulls at his coat on the other side, where a slug ripped two other holes through the wool in roughly the same place. "And my hat," he says, thrusting it at me. The top of his hat is torn through.

"You are one lucky man," I say to Clement.

"Yes," he says, "but Marshal, hadn't you best look for him? The shooter."

I could be wrong, but I think the shooter is standing in front of me, and he looks mighty calm for a man whose cousin was almost shot to death. Ashton fixes his oddly vacant eyes on me, the corners of his thin hard lips curving down so his mouth forms an arch.

I pick up his gunbelt, take the gun out of the holster and hand the weapon to Clement. He turns it in his hands, frowning at it like he's never seen one before. "Wait behind those rocks," I tell him, inclining my head at a rocky hill a few yards away.

"You come with me," I say to Ashton.

"You're going to look for him, Marshal?" says Clement.

"I'll take a look around."

Ashton walks with me to the cottonwoods. "You're takin' all this easy," I say. "Seems to me if you figure a killer might be hiding in the trees, you'd refuse to come with me unarmed."

"I know what you're thinking," he says, "and you're wrong. Another hunter must've mistook Clement for a pronghorn and shot at him."

I suppress a laugh and hold my severe look with an effort. I think of the four holes in Clement's coat and his ripped hat, and the urge to laugh disappears. "Fight me and you'll be sorry, Dillon," Ashton warns.

I quickly search the wood with Ashton beside me. No one is in sight, as I expected. "Whoever fired those shots wouldn't have stayed here," says Ashton. "He'd flee when he saw he shot at a man instead of an antelope."

I stop walking and face him. "You shot at your cousin, Coleridge," I say. "You tried to kill him."

"You have no proof of that," he says. "Or that I made the stallion throw Clem, or that I poisoned him when he got sick after eating. Those are unrelated unfortunate incidents. An old man says he saw me stick the horse's rump, and a meddlesome old woman suggests I poisoned my cousin. I know it had to be Ma Smalley told you about the arsenic. And I said I use it medicinally. Then that storekeeper runs to you with some addled tale when I insist my cousin accompany me hunting to take the air and exercise. You jail me and your case will not get past the hearing, Dillon. The judge will throw it out. And Clement knows I wouldn't hurt him. He'll wire his solicitor to send for the best attorney money can buy."

I am sure of Ashton's guilt as I've ever been of any man's without catching him in the act. Though I don't want to consider anything he says, I have to admit he's likely right about the judge dismissing the case, particularly if Ashton has a good lawyer. The strongest evidence I have are the holes in Clement's coat and hat and hearing the shots, but no one saw Ashton shoot at his cousin. The day is dark with storm clouds overhead, even darker in the shade of the trees, and for an overeager hunter to mistake a man at a distance for an antelope is not uncommon. Even if the man is sitting on a rock as Clement was, the judge will concede it's possible.

I'll wait and see if Ashton plays his deadly hand again, hoping he doesn't and dreading he will. If I arrest him now and the judge sets him free, he'll likely leave Dodge with his cousin, kill him, get away with it and live out his days a rich man with Clement's wealth deeded to him by his victim's own hand. Before I jail Ashton, I will make sure I have enough evidence to lock him up a long time, and maybe then Clement will see him for what he is. So far the murder attempts failed, but if Ashton is not stopped soon, Clement's luck may run out.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam

Miss Kitty sits eating a hardboiled egg and buttered toast with coffee. She came down earlier than usual and looks sleepy. I wish she'd work less and rest more, but there is no telling her as she won't take heed. Except for the girls in their rooms upstairs, Miss Kitty and I are the only two at the Long Branch until the Coleridge cousins walk in.

Ashton looks edgy, and resolute about somewhat, and Clement looks like he'd rather not be here. Ashton doesn't speak to Miss Kitty, tip his hat or glance at her as he tramps to the bar. I've seen him around town with his cousin. Ashton tells folks he is Clement's manservant, but he has the look of a murderous outlaw.

"Good day, Miss Kitty." Clement smiles and takes off his hat. "So nice to see you."

"Hello, Clement." Miss Kitty smiles and perks up. Reckon I would too, were I a woman. Beyond his patrician good looks, highbred bearing and fine duds, Clement has a way that draws folks in, though he's not loud or forceful.

"Come on over here, Clem," Ashton orders from the bar.

Clement's smile disappears and he looks vexed. "Pardon me," he says, putting his hat back on.

Miss Kitty nods. "Not that it's any of my affair," she says, "but if he's your valet, you pay him to wait on you, not the other way round." Clement smiles again, uneasy this time.

"Mind your own business, Miss Kitty," Ashton barks.

"I own this place, Mister," Miss Kitty retorts, "so everything that goes on here is my business. If you don't like it, get out." She has no fear of the fellow; she despises him too much to be afraid. She doesn't even bother to rise from her chair.

"You mustn't speak so to Miss Kitty, Ashton," says Clement.

"You come here," Ashton says to his cousin. "You're stirring up trouble with that woman."

"I best go to the bar," Clement says to Miss Kitty.

"Two beers, barkeep," says Ashton.

I draw a beer for Clement first. He thanks me as I set it in front of him, and as he reaches for it, Ashton takes it and gulps from the mug. Clement waits patiently like he's used to such treatment. I glance at Miss Kitty, who watches, then draw another beer for Clement.

When I put the beer on the bar, Ashton moves close to his cousin and knocks his elbow against Clement's mug, overturning it and spilling the beer. Then Clement falls over backward. I hear the thud of his body, followed by a second thump which I later realize is his head hitting the floor.

Ashton looks down, his wide face contorting and his pale empty eyes narrowing, then Miss Kitty gasps, jumps up from her chair and rushes to the bar. I look over the bar at the floor. Clement lies on his back holding his forehead, his hat nearby.

"_You fiend," _Miss Kitty says to Ashton, bending down beside Clement.

"It was an accident," says Ashton. "His boot slipped when the beer spilled on the floor. I had no way of knowing he'd fall. I shifted my position same time he fell and when I stepped to the side my boot landed on his head."

"I heard about your _accidents,_" Miss Kitty replies, on her knees beside Clement, heedless of the beer soaking the skirt of her dress. "Did you see what he did, Sam?"

"I didn't see it from behind the bar, Miss Kitty. Ashton hit the mug with his elbow and Clement fell. That's all I saw."

"Well, I saw exactly what happened," says Miss Kitty, glaring at Ashton. "He hit Clement's boot with his boot, in the back near his ankle, and made him fall. Then this brute stomped his boot heel on Clement's head. Go get Doc, will you, Sam?"

"No," says Clement, rubbing his forehead. "I'm quite well if you'll help me to a chair, Ash. A whiskey will restore me. The fall took my breath but there's no harm done." His voice sounds strong and steady.

"You're a lot tougher than you look," I say to Clement. "Wonder you're not passed out cold."

"Don't recollect passing out in my life. Nothing can hurt me much," says Clement, as his cousin clamps a beefy hand on each of his upper arms and yanks him to his feet.

"_Be careful!" _says Miss Kitty to Ashton.

"Let go of me, Ash," says Clement. "I don't need to sit down after all. I'll just drink the whiskey and walk to Ma's to change my clothes. I'm wet from the beer."

"But what about your head?" says Miss Kitty, handing Clement his hat. "He stomped you awful hard. You should have Doc take a look at it."

"It was an accident," Ashton says again.

"Well I've no lump starting, have I, Miss Kitty?" Clement asks, smiling at her.

"No," says Miss Kitty, peering at his forehead. "It's not even red. And you have no heel mark from his boot."

"It doesn't hurt either," Clement assures her. "You're very kind, ma'am, but you needn't worry about me. I always come out of things alright."

I fill a whiskey glass almost full and Clement tosses it back like it's water. Miss Kitty and I stare dumbfounded at him and he chuckles at us. "My hardiness surprises folks," he boasts, "particularly as I'm thin and my bones are smaller than I'd like. I wish I was bigger so I could knock Ashton about instead of the other way round, hey, Ash?"

"I don't knock you about," says Ashton, glowering at his cousin.

"Liar," Clement laughingly says. "Take it easy and have another beer, Ash. I can walk to Ma's myself. I'm a big boy."

I get some rags and move from behind the bar to clean the beer off the floor. "Clement, I hope you know this was no accident," says Miss Kitty. "I'm telling Marshal Dillon about it."

"You durn busybody," Ashton says to Miss Kitty. "I tell you I did not trip or step on him purposefully and he knows it. Go ahead and ask him."

I don't like how Ashton talks to Miss Kitty, so I wring beer from the rag onto his pants leg. _"Hey," _he says, "Fool barkeep. Watch out with that."

"It was an accident," I say.

"You think you're smart," says Ashton.

"Smart enough to throw you out of here," I say.

"Sam, it's alright," says Miss Kitty.

"I slipped in the spilled beer," Clement says. "Ashton slipped too and our boots tangled. He was trying to stay on his feet and did not mean to step on me. Please don't trouble yourself telling the marshal, Miss Kitty. I am fine as you see. And I won't prefer charges against Ash for something he could not help."

"I'm telling the marshal just the same," says Miss Kitty. "He's taking note of your accidents."

Kitty

Matt doesn't want me out alone at night where the Front Street businesses are closed and no one's around. He has no objection to me walking in the dark from the Long Branch to Doc's rooms close by, or to Delmonico's. The Lady Gay is near and open late, like my place and the restaurant, and that part of the street is well-lighted, with folks and riders about.

A full moon and stars in a clear sky light Front Street tonight, but Matt would scold me if he knew I'm walking to the Long Branch along a deserted stretch where the shop windows are dark. I had supper with a friend, and would not think of letting her husband get dressed to escort me home as he's sick with the grippe, though both of them urged me to allow it. I assured my friends that I carry a six-gun in my pocketbook, know how to use it and won't hesitate if it comes to that.

I walk fast, my eyes fixed on the light shining onto the walk through the windows of Delmonico's up ahead. The player piano music sounds faint on this dark lonely part of Front Street, and there's not a soul around. My heart beats faster than usual, my senses tuned. The gun's weight in my purse is a comfort anyway.

I hear the slaps first, loud and fast, and I wince for whoever's getting hit. Then I hear the voices, from the passage between the milliner's and cobbler's.

"You'll do as I say, understand?" The gruff voice belongs to Ashton Coleridge.

"Stop it, you mad dog." That's Clement's voice. "Stop shaking me. You want to weaken me, and you know it never works. The smacks don't hurt either."

"Well maybe this will." I hear a punch, and put my hands to my mouth to keep from gasping. Then a thump. The beast knocked Clement down.

"Get up," Ashton snarls.

"Don't jerk me up by my collar," Clement chokes.

More slaps. "I think the townsfolk are right about you, Ash," Clement says calmly. His smooth pleasant voice sounds steady as ever, without a tremble. I think of his fall in the Long Branch when his cousin stomped his head and wonder again at his hardiness, so out of keeping with his slight build and pallor. The only sign of his strong constitution are the two spots of pink color near his cheekbones.

"I did not want to believe it, but I can't deny it anymore, especially since we came to Dodge. You know I will outlive you unless you kill me. I shall live to a great age, past one hundred and then some; I've always known it. You'll never get your inheritance if you let me live, so I'm leaving you and you can't stop me, Cousin. I have the money to flee from you across the sea if I must," says Clement. "Let go of me."

"You will not cut me out of your will," Ashton says. "Know why? Cousin? Cuz I'm gonna kill you right now. One thing you won't survive is a bullet through the heart. Dillon can't jail me as no one will see me do it."

My own heart bounds. I know Ashton wears a gun and Clement doesn't, and I think of the gun in my pocketbook. Maybe if I just show my face, let him see there's a witness, he won't shoot his cousin. But what if he shoots me and Clement too?

"Don't, Ashton," Clement pleads. He sounds afraid now, and hurt, I'm guessing not from getting hit but because his cousin is fixing to kill him. I open my purse and take out the gun, trying not to fumble and make noise.

"I'm not cutting you out of my will," Clement says tearfully. "I was about to tell you that when you pulled your gun on me."

"Sorry, Clem. Your blubbering won't soften me and change my mind." The beast. My hand tightens around the gun butt. I am ready to kill Ashton Coleridge this instant.

"What is it you want?" Clement begs. "Please, Ash. I've already given you enough to live on comfortably for life. It was your idea to play at being my valet. To give you a reason to stay close to me so you could kill me. I always pushed the idea from my head before now. You want it all, don't you, Ash. All I have. Well, I will give it to you. I'll write the letter to my solicitor and send it in tomorrow's post. He'll write me when everything is prepared, and I'll travel to New Haven with you and sign the papers.

"Ashton, please don't shoot me. The marshal will find you and arrest you. He's keeping a report of the times you tried to kill me. He'll present it all in court, and you could go to prison a long time. Just on the strength of circumstantial evidence. They might lock you up more than twenty years—"

"Shut up." Ashton cuts him off. "Slick talker. You think you can talk your way out of anything."

"Well you can hardly fault me for trying."

"Shut up and let me think," says Ashton.

Silence follows. I stand still as I can, my palm sweating on the gun butt, trying to quieten my breathing.

"I don't believe you, Cousin," says Ashton. "You've a trick up your sleeve, but I'll go along with it for now. See where it leads."

I hear a whoosh of breath and figure it's Clement's. "You rabid animal," says Clement. "How dare you even think of killing me after all I've done for you." A loud smack, and a shocked noise in Ashton's gravelly voice.

Then a louder slap. Has to be Ashton hitting Clement again. "Don't ever hit me, you little fop," says Ashton.

I put my gun away. I must let Clement see me, let him know I heard it all as a witness, and we can tell Matt. Then the cousins come out of the passage and are right there close to me. Clement's face is red from the slaps; otherwise he's sure on his feet.

"Miss Kitty," he says, tipping his hat. "Does the marshal know you're out alone in the dark? He's your beau, is he not? He should look after you better than this."

"Matt's on his nightly patrol," I say. "I can take care of myself."

"Nonsense, you're merely a frail woman," says Clement. "Men are sneaking about as we speak, looking to attack a woman by herself, especially a beautiful one like you."

"Thank you," I say, "but I'm not at all frail. You don't know me very well."

"I know you are wonderfully high-spirited," says Clement, smiling at me, "and I adore a high-spirited woman. You're walking to the Long Branch? I shall escort you there." Although spare in form, Clement is not a short man. He's an inch or so under six feet, and his keen light-brown eyes shine down at me in the moonlight. I'm not afraid to walk this lonely stretch of Front Street at his side, though he has no gun and is clearly not a fighter. A sort of sureness in his own wellbeing no matter what befalls him makes me feel safe with him. He offers his arm and I take it, returning his smile.

"You go on to Ma's, Ashton," says Clement.

"You hear anything?" Ashton asks me. "Between me and my cousin?"

"Hear what," I say. "I'm headed home and you two show up in front of me."

"Go on, Ash," says Clement. "Don't trouble Miss Kitty with your dumb questions."

"You just watch your tongue, Clem," Ashton growls. "You don't want any more from me." He tramps away.

"Clement," I say as we walk to the Long Branch, "I heard what went on between you and Ashton. I didn't see anything but I sure heard clear. I was standing near that passageway listening."

"You should not have done that, Miss Kitty." Clement's voice is low with concern, his sharply etched features sober. We're coming near Delmonico's where the street is lighted, and I see his face well under the shadow of his hat. His eyes are a bit large, his nose somewhat long, rather pointed but not pinched, his expressive mouth neither thin or full, and the bones of his face small for a man's yet not delicate. "I shudder to think what Ashton might have done to you if he knew," says Clement.

"He wouldn't have done anything to me," I say. "I have a gun in my purse, and I was holding it ready. I wasn't gonna let him shoot you."

"You almost risked your life to save me, Miss Kitty," he says with a quiver in his voice. "You are a brave lady, my dear. But I'm glad you didn't do it.

"I've no intention of giving all my money and property to Ashton. I willed it to him if I die before he does, which is not likely to happen. But now I am thinking of deeding everything to charities. If by chance I do die first, I fear Ashton will make bad use of my riches," Clement says.

"You need to tell Matt, and he'll throw Ashton in jail," I say. "I'll be your witness."

"Thank you, but I don't want him jailed. Much as it pains me to admit it, Ashton is not a good man, or even a civil or decent one. He's my cousin, though, my closest living relation. He worked hard while I never worked a day and always had the best. I cannot help wanting to help him no matter what he does to me. I want to make life easier for him, Miss Kitty."

"But if he's not locked up, he'll kill you when he realizes you're not signing all you have over to him. Especially if he thinks you might cut him out of your will, he'll try to kill you before you get a chance to do it," I say.

"I won't let him kill me, dear lady. I'll reassure him he is still my beneficiary, which he is. My heart won't let me cut him out as of the moment. Ash is cunning, but he can be a blockhead, too. I'll have my guard up and not get caught alone with him. I will not run and hide from him. I'll keep my room at Ma Smalley's while my agent back home in New Haven makes arrangements for me to settle in San Francisco. I'll need a furnished home and such as that, which takes awhile. Ashton is through playing manservant to me; that much is sure."

We reach the Long Branch. "I need two glasses of rye after what's happened. Join me in a drink, Miss Kitty?"

"Alright." Matt said he'd stop by for a beer after his rounds, and I'm telling him everything that went on with the cousins tonight.

Doc

The younger Coleridge always gives me a cordial look and says "Hello, Doc," in passing, and when I happen to see the older one, he makes it a point to scowl at me, which I don't take personal. Matt, Kitty and Chester say Ashton scowls at them, too. I figure that's his natural expression.

I'm in my office when Clement opens the door and stumbles in, breathing hard like he's been running. The day is unseasonably warm and he's not wearing a coat, but he's also hatless, has no suit jacket on over his vest and no collar and tie, unusual for him as he's rather a dandy. "Doc," he gasps, "I'm shot."

I close the door and help him to the table while quickly looking him over, starting from his crinkly, shiny brown hair. My eyes stop at his torso. The left side of his vest is soaked with blood. "Who's after you?" I say, helping him lie down. I think I know who it is. It's all over town how Ashton's trying to kill his cousin, and Matt can do nothing about it on account of Clement won't prefer charges.

Clement doesn't answer me, and as I unbutton his vest, I hear a heavy tread on the stairs. "That's Ashton," says Clement. "It's alright for now, Doc. He won't shoot me in front of you as you'd be a witness."

Clement's breathing has settled, his voice is strong and he's no paler than what's normal for him. His eyes are bright and clear, all of which perplexes me. With that amount of blood loss, he should be unconscious.

The door opens and Ashton comes in. "See what you've done to me, Ash," Clement accuses. Ashton glances uneasily at me as I examine the hole in Clement's side beneath his ribs.

"We were target shooting outside town," says Ashton. "It was an accident."

"I've heard a lot about your accidents," I say, cleaning Clement's wound. "Mind you don't have any of 'em in here." It's a flesh wound, and none of his organs are exposed. Matt said Clement is a lucky man, which is surely the truth. Thin as he is, there's not much flesh for a bullet to rip through without piercing something vital.

"This was no accident," says Clement. "I told him this morning I wasn't about to give him everything I own, and when I went into Mrs. Smalley's garden to sit and read after breakfast, he caught me there alone, dragged me out on the prairie and shot me."

"He's lying," says Ashton. "It's his word against mine."

"Don't try to convince me," I say to Ashton. "I'm no lawman."

"I don't need morphine, Doc," Clement says as I take a packet out of the box in my cabinet. "The stitches won't hurt me much."

"I'll give you laudanum," I say, putting away the morphine. His bleeding has slowed so the wound barely trickles.

"You got a reason to be here?" I ask Ashton as I put two spoons of laudanum in Clement's mouth. "I reckon you're not here to comfort your cousin."

"You gonna tell Dillon about this?" says Ashton.

"Of course I am. Though I'll waste my breath, most likely," I say, threading catgut. "Matt can't lock you in a cell where you belong if your cousin won't agree to the charge."

"I won't," says Clement, as I press the lips of the wound together and start stitching. He barely grimaces as I sew him up. "Ashton's too much of an oaf to kill me."

As I help Clement turn over to stitch his wound in back, Ashton stomps close to the table. "Don't you call me names," he grates through his teeth.

"Get out," I order him.

"No little country sawbones is gonna tell me what to do," he says.

"Don't, Ashton," Clement says, and tries to sit up. I hold him down. "Lie still," I say to Clement. "I'll handle him."

"_Hah!"_ Ashton barks.

I hold up the surgical needle coated with Clement's blood. "You raise a hand against your cousin or me, and I'll stab you to the hilt with this needle. _Now get out!" _

I'm surprised to see a flicker of fear in Ashton's blank pale-blue eyes. He backs away from me and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

"Thanks, Doc," says Clement. "Ashton's temper's got worse since we came to Dodge."

"Bad enough to kill his own cousin over money and whatnot," I say, sprinkling healing powder on the wound. "You keep protecting him from jail and a prison term, you may just wind up dead soon."

I help Clement sit up and wrap a bandage round his slim waist. "You best spend the day here and overnight," I say. "I can check for any signs of infection and stop the bleeding if it starts again."

"I never catch infection," he says, "and the wound won't bleed more than a few drops. I can feel it healing already. I mend very fast, Doc. If you'll be so good as to help me put on my shirt and vest, I will pay you and be on my way."

Except for the bandage stained with two small blood spots at the front and back under his ribs, Clement doesn't look or act like a man just shot and stitched up. I give him a tonic and the laudanum bottle, and tell him to come back and see me tomorrow morning.

His shirt and vest are bloody and torn with bullet holes, yet he smiles at me as I help him dress. The longer I doctor, the more I see that I don't understand. Like why Clement willed in the event of his death all he owns to a man such as Ashton, why Clement shields from the law this man out to kill him, and why he's not dead after all the attempts on his life. Very strange, and I feel in my bones it is not over yet.


	4. Chapter 4

Chester

Long past sundown and somewhat in the air won't let me settle with my coffee and some old magazines Moss give me. _The Overland _has a story _The Luck of Roaring Camp _what caught my fancy. Sure will rest easy when Mr. Dillon gets back from Fort Dodge tonight, what with that Ashton Coleridge skulking round town trying to kill his cousin. Doc said this thing with them cousins ain't over yet, and Doc's right 'bout stuff like that, usual.

I figger maybe some music might ease my nerves, so I pull out my harmonica, set on the bed and start with _Oh Susanna_. Indian summer passed and frost covered the ground night and dawn when the Coleridges first come to Dodge, but now we are amidst a warm spell, warmest to my remembrance for this time of year, and I leave the windows open. I know my song drifts along the street where folks will hear, and I am quietening peaceful when I hear running bootsteps on the walkway.

Clement charges in, slams and locks the door and looks out the window, then at me. He is a sight rumpled for a spiffy fellow, and I reckon he suffered another accident at the hand of Ashton. Clement is hatless and scruffy-haired, his shirt unbuttoned hangs outa his pants, and his clothes is wrinkled. _"Chester," _he says, _"Where's Marshal Dillon." _

"He went to Fort Dodge," I say. " 'Spect 'im back 'bout now."

"I want Ashton arrested," says Clement, calming hisself. "I did not wish my own cousin jailed, but I cannot bear this anymore, Chester. Look what he did to me."

I'm standing up now, my harmonica on the bed, and he comes up close and shows me his throat. A rope burn marks his skin. "Yer cousin try ta hang ya, did he?" I ask.

"Just as bad as hanging," says Clement. "I was in my room at Ma's, lying on the bed reading, resting a spell before I took off my boots and changed into my nightshirt. It's so warm tonight I left the window open, and I lay on my side so my back faced the window.

"I dozed off, then suddenly I couldn't breathe and the skin of my throat stung. I woke up and I was being strangled. I knew at once it was Ashton trying to kill me again. I locked my room door but he snuck in through the window. I reached back and boxed his ears hard as I could; he let go and I leaped off the bed. He was clutching his head and stumbling about roaring curses at me, and I escaped through the window and ran for my life.

"I know he followed me, Chester. Ashton can't run much or even walk that fast, but he's not far behind and he'll look for me here. I've never hit him like that before and he's full of murderous rage. He's taken leave of what little senses he had," says Clement.

I move to the window and look up and down Front Street and across. I don't see Ashton but it's dark out there. Cuz I can't see him don't mean he's not coming.

"You wanna set?" I say, and pull out a chair from the table. "We got whiskey. You look like you could use some."

"Thank you," says Clement.

I pour him a half-cup, and whilst he sips I fetch the shotgun we keep loaded. I check the cylinder anyway to make sure. "Mr. Dillon'll lock up yer cousin," I say. "You want I should take you ta Doc's 'n git a salve for your neck?"

"No no," says Clement, rubbing his throat. "It'll soon mend. It's itching already. The burn will disappear by sunup."

I stand staring at him, not thinking on how I'm doing it. I heard round town 'bout him being lucky, healing fast and the accidents his cousin sets up to kill him not hurting him and such. He's kinda skinny and pale, not frail exact but don't look strong neither. Doc says Clement is a natural and medical wonder, and I wanna ask him questions 'bout hisself but that'd be rude so I don't.

Clement smiles uneasy like. "What is it, Chester," he says, and then I know I been staring and made him awkward.

My face gets hot. "Sorry," I say.

"That's alright. I am rather a freak, aren't I," says Clement.

"No, but your cousin Ashton is. He b'longs in a cage," I say.

"I know," he says.

I look out the windows again. Still no sign of Ashton. He must be searching other places for Clement 'fore he thinks to come here. I hope Mr. Dillon gets here first.

"You best wait here 'til Mr. Dillon comes and throws Ashton in jail," I say, and Clement nods.

"You want some coffee?" I say.

"Please."

I pour us both a cup. "You play cribbage?" I ask him.

Clement smiles. "Yes but . . . I cannot concentrate on a game at a time like this. You should stand guard at the windows and listen for Ashton, Chester."

"Well I'm not gonna frame my head in the winder an' git it blowed off," I say. He laughs nervous like. "I got the shotgun to hand; I kin hear 'is boots on the boards outside if it's him, seein' as he stomps when he walks," I say.

"Yes well, perhaps a game will distract me, then," says Clement. "I confess I am scared as a trapped rabbit."

"You got every reason to be, Clement. But if Ashton shows 'fore Mr. Dillon gits here, I'll try my dangdest to stop 'im shootin' you."

"Thanks. You're a brave man, Chester."

"Jest doin' ma job is all." I ain't telling him I'm scared too. He don't need to know. I'm used to it, the fear. It helps me do what I have to.

I set up the game and lean the shotgun against the table by my chair. I set facing the window, and Clement sets left side of me.

We don't talk much whilst we play, as we're keeping our ears peeled for Ashton, and I look up at the windows just 'bout every minute. Cribbage takes such a heap of thinking on, it comes clear to me later that we should have played checkers instead.

Clement ain't watching the windows on account of he 'spects me to watch, and I get so caught up in the game, I forget five minutes or so. Later when this is all over, I tell Mr. Dillon and Doc and Miss Kitty that Ashton must been tipping on his boot toes, cuz I for sure did not hear him outside, nor Clement.

A shot explodes splitting-ear loud, and the bullet whizzes past Clement's head and rips through the door to the jail. No one's in the cells, thankful.

Clement dives under the table, and I see Ashton through the window, pointing his gun at me. I can't get down fast enough. Another shot cracks out, and I feel the bullet like a hard punch to my right shoulder that knocks me back on the floor, then the pain searing through my arm and side. Ashton aimed down, so the bullet don't rip through my back. It's inside me hurting like a fireball, worse when I move my arm. "He got me," I say, scarce more than a whisper.

Clement grabs the shotgun as Ashton shoots through the front door lock and kicks in the door. I feel the blood wet on my shoulder and everything blurs.

Clement rises and steps in front of the table, leveling the shotgun at Ashton who's pointing his six-shooter at Clement. "You don't have the gizzard to kill me," Ashton says to his cousin.

I can't see clear now as I'm fainting away, but I see the thin outline that is Clement, and he's shaking. I hear Ashton click the gun hammer. That is all I recollect for a spell.

Matt

Walking from Grimmick's livery, I see in the darkness the stocky figure at the window, hear a shot and break into a run. I know in my gut the shooter is Ashton. Clement must be in the office, and if Clement's in there, Chester likely is, too. Ashton fires through the window again, then shoots at the door lock and kicks the door open.

I draw my gun. Ashton stands in the doorway, his gun pointed at Clement's chest, and Clement holds a shotgun on Ashton. Chester lies on his back on the floor, his eyes closed and his shirt bloody at the right shoulder.

"_Hold it," _I say to Ashton. I thumb my gun hammer. "You're dead if you pull that trigger," I say.

"You'd shoot a man in the back? Dillon?" says Ashton.

"Right between your shoulder blades," I say. "Now drop that gun."

Still aiming the shotgun at Ashton, Clement cautiously steps to the side, so he won't get hit if I shoot Ashton.

"_Don't move," _I warn Ashton as he starts to shift. He goes motionless. "I said drop the gun," I say.

Ashton swiftly pivots to face me, raising his gun. He's aiming at my head, the devil. I blow a hole through his heart, and Clement pulls the shotgun trigger at the same time, blasting one through his ribs. He drops the gun and falls straight back, dead before he hits the floor, and the room shakes as he lands.

A shudder runs through Clement as he looks at the body, then he returns the shotgun to its place on the wall while I holster my gun and go to Chester. I bend down beside him, put my palm on his chest and feel its rise and fall.

"Can I help carry him to Doc's, Marshal?" says Clement.

"No," I say, "but run ahead and wake Doc up if you will, Clement. Tell him Chester's been shot so Doc can get ready to tend him."

"Of course," he says.

"Know where the undertaker's is?" I say.

He nods. "I've seen the building. I'll go." He steps around the corpse without another look, and jogs down the street to Doc's.

A cold wind blows through the window, breaking the unseasonal warm spell. I put a blanket over Chester, and he groans as I lift him but doesn't come to.

Some men drawn by the gunfire crowd round the door. I can't close it against them as I'm holding Chester, and they step inside to ogle Ashton's body. The men lean over the corpse, staring more than usual, and I recollect the pale blue eyes, nearly as blank in life as they are in death, are wide open.

"Alright, it's over," I say as I start for Doc's. "You men go on home."

I won't linger to see that they do. Though Chester is light for a tall man, his weight already strains my arms and back, and I have to get him to Doc's and up the stairs.

The onlookers move off reluctantly. "Is Chester bad off, Marshal?" asks one. He works at the cattle pens and I see him often at the Long Branch and Delmonico's, but his name escapes me.

"He's alive," I say. "Could be worse. Doc will take care of him."

"Can I help you carry him to Doc's?" says the man.

"No," I say, not knowing quite why I refuse his offer, as I could use the help. "Thanks, Milt." His name comes to me as I speak it.

I'm halfway to Doc's and panting when I see Clement running toward me. "I'll help you with him, Marshal," he says. "Doc's getting ready for him and the undertaker's hitching up his wagon to pick up Ashton."

The two of us easily carry Chester, and as I catch my breath I can ponder some things, though worry for Chester clouds my thoughts. Showing no sign of gravity, let alone sadness over shooting his cousin, Clement rather seems invigorated by Ashton's death. His eyes glitter in the darkness, and as we pass the lighted Lady Gay I see his fair skin flushed and glowing. Not that I blame him.

Clement is the luckiest man I ever met, and the hardiest despite his slim frame. I wouldn't believe he was shot himself a few days ago if Doc hadn't told me. Ashton spooked a horse to throw his cousin, then poisoned him with arsenic, shot holes through his coat and hat on a hunting trip, tripped him up and stomped his head at the Long Branch, smacked and punched him, dragged him out on the prairie and shot him, and finally tried to strangle him. I think I've never felt the sort of excitement he likely feels now, but were I in Clement's place, I'd feel at least gratified to fire a bullet into Ashton and watch him die.

Matt***********************************************************************

Clement holds himself to account for Chester getting shot. Doc says we've no cause to be concerned about Clement, that he's working out his guilt tending Chester when Doc goes out on calls and Kitty's needed at the Long Branch. That we take a liking to Clement and care what becomes of him is curious, seeing as he stirred up trouble in Dodge by protecting his cousin until forced to shoot him. Clement is just the sort of man folks are drawn to, for a lot of reasons yet none that stand out.

Chester never lacks company when awake, as Clement amuses him and fetches him anything he wants. If not for the humble gratitude that comes natural to Chester, he'd be spoiled sure.

Doc had to dig deep to get the bullet out of Chester's shoulder, and says it missed piercing his lung by a hair. His right arm in a sling, Chester mends in Doc's bed while Doc sleeps nights on his lounge. I'm visiting Chester now as he and Clement play checkers. "Doc says Chester can move back to the marshal's office in a few days, Clem," I say.

"Never thought I'd do tolerable layin' bedrid at Doc's, but with you passin' the time with me, Clement, chattin' an' readin' aloud 'n playin' checkers and backgammon and such, I dun mind at all," Chester says. "I surely am beholden to you."

"Not a bit of it, Chester," says Clement. "You don't owe me a thing."

"Well, if ever I kin do anythin' for ya, you jest let me know," says Chester.

"What do you aim to do with yourself, Clem, now that Chester's healing and you won't be waiting on him hand and foot," I say. I don't say that Clement's a free man since his cousin is dead and can't torment him anymore. Clement looks sober, thoughtful and elated all at once, and I see he gets my drift.

"I've no desire to flee to San Francisco now that Ashton's gone," he says. "I have no one to run away from. I'd like to settle somewhere, but not back in New Haven. It's not home to me after Pa and Mother and my old valet died."

"Whereabouts you thinkin' on goin', Clem," says Chester.

"I thought of having a house built on the outskirts of Dodge. I might marry and have children. I always wanted to fall in love until Ashton made himself my caretaker. Then I could only think how guilty I felt that my lot in life was so much better than his, and how to placate him," Clement says.

"Ashton made you feel guilty so he could get his hands on what's rightfully yours," I say. "You weren't responsible for him, Clement. You weren't obligated to give him a cent, and when you shot him, you did what you had to do."

"Course ya did," Chester agrees.

"I know," Clement says. "I see it clearly now Ashton's dead. Strange how he had me so taken in when he was alive. I felt like I was doing wrong by him even though all I ever did was give him money, buy him things and let him take part in my life. Then when I shot him and saw him die, that burden just vanished. A man is expected to feel remorse when he kills his cousin, even if he has to. But I felt none."

"You ain't called on to," says Chester. "You done what you had to is all, like you said."

"Yes. But even so," Clement says.

"My bullet killed him much as yours," I say. "I'm the one shot him through the heart."

"Oh I am not sorry I helped kill Ashton," says Clem. "I'm just a bit troubled that I've felt not the slightest pang over the thing." He sighs, then smiles at Chester and me. "However, I let it trouble me long enough," he says, and breaks suddenly into hearty laughter. Chester smiles at Clement, then sniggers as Clement guffaws. I can't help but grin as Clement whoops, his face beet-red, doubled over in his chair, and a belly laugh escapes me, which tickles Chester more.

Doc went to the Long Branch for a beer, and he and Kitty are starting up the stairs to his rooms when our laughter blasts through the window. Chester's high howls mix with Clement's shrieks and my restrained chuckling.

I hear Doc's front door open, and a second later he appears in the bedroom doorway with Kitty smiling beside him. "Well for heaven sakes," Doc says. "For a minute there I thought Kitty and I got turned around and headed into a jungle. Stop that, Chester. You'll make your wound bleed. Matt, you know he isn't mended enough for this kind of foolin'."

"Cain't hardly help maself, Doc," Chester hiccups.

"Oh Doc," Kitty says. "There's no better medicine than foolin'."

"Can't argue with _that_, Doc," I say.

"Laugh away then," Doc says. "Goodness knows there's not much else we can do."


End file.
